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Archive for the ‘Pretty Lies’ Category

“Different White ethnicities don’t get along either, so let’s ignore the warning provided by this observation and import nonWhites who will get along even less with Whites!”

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One of the greatest tunes (and visually arresting music videos) of the ’90s — Tool’s Stinkfist — uses the symbolism of fist fucking to warn against creeping consumerism in both the material and romantic senses. Stinkfist’s pairing of the vulgar with the transcendental is right in the Chateau wheelhouse. Pure poetry, and possibly a proto-vision of what would later become this blog outpost’s overarching theme.

Knuckle deep inside the borderline.
This may hurt a little but it’s something you’ll get used to.
Relax. Slip away.

There’s something kinda sad about
The way that things have come to be.
Desensitized to everything.
What became of subtlety?

How can this mean anything to me
If I really don’t feel anything at all?

I’ll keep digging
‘Til I feel something.

I bring this up because Tool’s frontman and creative genius, Maynard James Keenan, was recently PoundMeToo’ed by a slutty groupie.

Maynard is as pozzed as any Left Coast musician, but surprisingly he is not on record as an anti-Trumper. The little political stuff he’s said is radically banal, by the standards of his artfag subculture, which means in the current climate of Leftoid Intolerance he stands accused as insufficiently anti-Nazi.

So maybe that’s why he was just MeToo’ed. Or maybe our society is being corrupted by lonely attention whore has-been roadie skanks who upon approaching the long midnight of post-Wall sexual obsolescence decide to spit out totally unverifiable 20-year old sexual assault accusations against famous men to scratch their itch to be vaginally relevant again.

weev has the deets:

actual Maynard quotes:

“Trump is not your enemy”

“We have the privilege to do that because of active and former law enforcement and military, defending our right to do so. Those of you who are law enforcement and military, your job is to defend our right to act like whining, entitled snowflake assholes – myself being one. Snowflakes, your job is to respect them f**king doing that for you.”

Regarldess of these quotes just read the lyrics of “Hooker with a Penis” and “Vicarious” and tell me he’s not our guy.

Maynard is a singular musical genius, unlike any other, and even if he wasn’t now that Neil Peart is retired Danny Carey is objectively the greatest living drummer. Forty Six and Two, The Grudge, Triad, Ticks and Leeches. Listen to the drums in those.

Don’t you think it is pretty likely that baseless impropriety accusations by an anonymous Twitter account getting massive coverage by the (((music journalism))) industry is a direct result of Maynard’s statements in regards to our President?

“I went back to a trailer with a rock star and watched a movie in his bed and we ended up having sex. It was rape.” Seriously, who believes this?

No one who doesn’t have an axe to grind against the expression of normal male (and female) sexuality. And by normal, I mean men are attracted to youth and beauty and women are attracted to power and fame. Put the two together, and sparks fly (which is later retconned as assault by spiteful slores).

I hope this Synchronized MeToo Menstruation will end soon, despite the overwhelming majority of the accused coming from the one group that I despise for their efforts to ruin my homeland under a deluge of Dirt Worlders…

The Bad Hair Brigade

…because the whole media-crafted enterprise reeks of forgotten sluts clamoring to revisit a few seconds of fame to slander and demonize famous men with whom those sluts didn’t have the integrity nor the horniness self-discipline to walk away from when the lay-for-play proposition was put before them.

***

The Judge comments,

Lol “..he rapes in every city”

It’s not enough to have fucked a rockstar. Now you must be raped by one.

There’s something to this cynical take. A couple generations of coke-carved lithe groupies getting banged out by rockstars (which is something of an anomaly in the sweep of human history) has inured the public to the reality of it. Everyone expects it now, so it’s no big deal, for better or worse. How’s a groupiegirl supposed to preen when throwing her legs open for rockstars has lost its cachet? Of course, she says she was raped by a rockstar! It’s not much of an achievement to be a rockstar’s ho-hum Tuesday night strum receptacle, but to arouse the ardor of a rockstar to the raping point? Ladies, that is the stuff of GRRLPOWER.

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that one guy (the MPC-celeb?) emailed a NYBetaTimes article with a link to a study finding that….SHOCKER…White liberals aren’t so keen on open borders when the borders open directly into their wealthy homogeneous superzips.

SCIENCE: putting pseudo-“immigrants” into super white liberal communities makes the shitlibs favor immigration restrictions.

***

Ryan Enos, a political scientist at Harvard, published a book last year, “The Space Between Us,” suggesting that the ideological commitment of liberals in these and other similar communities may waver, or fail entirely, when their white homogeneity is threatened.

Not only is the upscale wing of the Democratic Party an unreliable ally of the left on economic issues — as I have noted in this column before and as Lily Geismer and Matthew D. Lassiter eloquently pointed out in The Times last week — but Enos demonstrates that the liberal resolve of affluent Democrats can disintegrate when racially or ethnically charged issues like neighborhood integration are at stake.

When the self-aggrandizement of the signal is challenged by the consequences of the virtue, the signal retreats.

Six years ago, Enos looked at nine townships southwest of Boston that were “overwhelmingly racially and politically liberal.” As such, these communities were a “test of the power of demographic change because these were people who, we might think, would be unlikely to change their attitudes in the face of immigration.”

There’s nothing more satisfying than getting a liberal to betray her own principles.

Enos and his colleagues conducted an experiment, which is described in detail in a 2014 paper, “Causal effect of intergroup contact on exclusionary attitudes,” published by the National Academy of Sciences. The results are thought provoking.

Testing the signal-to-lawnboys ratio.

Enos described the experiment as:

a randomized controlled trial testing the causal effects of repeated intergroup contact, in which Spanish-speaking confederates were randomly assigned to be inserted, for a period of days, into the daily routines of unknowing Anglo-whites living in homogeneous communities in the United States, thus simulating the conditions of demographic change.

Libs preen
Beans stream
Now not so keen
on a vibrant scene

To achieve this goal, during the summer of 2012, Enos dispatched “a small number of Spanish-speaking confederates to commuter train stations in homogeneously Anglo communities every day, at the same time, for two weeks.”

The stations were on two Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority commuter rail lines into Boston — one starting in Worcester, the other in Forge Park — at nine stations in upscale, mostly white towns.

Enos reported that the Anglo commuters he studied had an average income of $143,365, and 88 percent had college degrees, compared with 30.4 percent nationally that year. The median household income for the country at large was $51,371 in 2012, according to the census.

Shitlibs act, despite their professed ideals, as if credentials and money are the traits of the virtuous GoodWhite.

Subjects were exposed to the same Spanish-speaking persons in a location near their homes for an extended period, as would be the situation if immigrants had moved into their neighborhood and used the public transportation.

The Spanish-speaking confederates reported to Enos that:

persons noticed and displayed some unease with them: for example reporting that “Because we are chatting in Spanish, they look at us. I don’t think it is common to hear people speaking in Spanish on this route.” After the experiment, the confederates reported that other passengers were generally friendly to them but also reported that they felt people noticed them for “not being like them and being Latino.”

After the perfunctory nervous niceties that shitlibs excel at when their all-White dreamscape is suddenly rattled by invaders from their nightmares, we get to the juicy stuff leaking from the lib-id:

Members of the treatment groups and control groups were surveyed before and after the two weeklong experiments in an effort to identify the effect of exposure to Spanish-speaking people. In both surveys, respondents were asked three questions about immigration along with other more general questions […]

How did the respondents’ answers change?

Treated subjects [ed: subjects exposed to increased diversity on their daily commutes] were far more likely to advocate a reduction in immigration from Mexico and were far less likely to indicate that illegal immigrants should be allowed to remain in this country.

WOMP there it is.

[The experiment] demonstrated that exclusionary attitudes can be stimulated by even very minor, noninvasive demographic change: in this case, the introduction of only two persons. […]

The good liberal people catching trains in the Boston suburbs became exclusionary.

Exposure to two young Spanish speakers for just a few minutes, or less, for just three days had driven them toward anti-immigration policies associated with their political opponents.

LMAO. When shitlibs virtue signal, the signal is typically a few orders of magnitude more powerful than the claimed virtue.

Segregation and White voting behavior was examined:

A white voter in the least-segregated metropolitan area was 10 percentage points more likely to vote for Obama than a white voter in the most-segregated area.

These voting patterns, according to Enos, reflect what might be called a self-reinforcing cycle of prejudice.

In the mid-to-late twentieth century, Enos writes, “whites — spurred by forces including their own racism [ed: aka pattern recognition] — abandoned the inner cities.” But, he goes on, that “is not where the story ends. Attitudes do not remain static.” In practice, the very fact of being segregated creates an environment in which hostile views “become even more negative and their political consequences even more severe.”

That’s not it. What happens is that Whites who have found their all-White elysium will want to protect it from the very real negative social consequences of Diversity™.

Prejudice may have helped cause segregation, but then the segregation helped cause even more prejudice.

The segregation reminded Whites just how good life can be without Diversity™, so their attitudes toward racial overrun hardened. ftfy.

Liberal democracies endorse diversity, Enos writes,

indeed, it is often considered one of our strengths and liberal individuals usually favor diversity as a matter of ideology and public policy.

The Equalism Ideology is a religion of secular degeneration, and should therefore not be used as the premise of public policy.

We often support diversity out of a genuine ideological commitment and because we rightly perceive that diversity can improve the performance of many organizations, such as universities and businesses.

Rightly perceive? There’s Enos’s (and his liberal friends’) problem right there: they have constructed a worldview based on a false premise. Namely, the false premise that diversity of race and ethnicity “improves performance”. Every real world observation and replicable study has found otherwise.

But, he continues, “looking across the world and even across states and cities within the United States, most of us would rather not live with some of the social, economic, and political consequences of diversity.” This is what Enos calls “the liberal dilemma.”

Or what I call “the liberal delusion”.

Not all of Enos’s findings are bleak. Group hostility, he writes, grows as the size of the immigrant population grows until it reaches a certain point and then begins to recede:

The relationship between the proportion of an out-group in an area and group-based bias is curvilinear: it becomes greater as the out-group proportion increases until reaching a tipping point and then starting to decrease. This means that when a group makes up a large portion of a place — for concreteness, say 40 percent — each additional person above 40 percent actually decreases group-based bias.

LOL is this guy pulling our legs? No shit intergroup hostility decreases when the outgroup becomes a majority; the beset-upon ingroup must trade in their hostility for appeasement when their numbers are insufficient to protect the homogeneity of their turf.

Ryan [Enos]’s book is brilliant and his findings dovetail with my belief that we’re in for a tough road ahead as the country diversifies, at least in the short term.

Liberals are very sanguine about the eventually of a happy, functional diversitopia. It’s always a “short term” tough road until we reach nirvana. 400 years of black dysfunction and inability to assimilate to White norms and values belies the shitlib hope of a “short term” bump in the road. Now of course, the smarter shitlibs know there will be no short term tough road, that instead it will take tens if not hundreds of generations of racial mixing to bring about their vision of a White-Asian elite ruling over a muddy peasantry of braindead consumerists. This is why the elites have begun pushing miscegenation so hard in entertainment, media, and advertising. They are acclimating Whites to accept their racial dissolution.

The Trumpening angle:

“But the polarizing rhetoric of politicians ‘politicizes’ the places where Americans live,” Sides, Tesler and Vavreck observe,

and people who live in places with a recent influx of immigrants then become more concerned about immigration. This unfolded in 2016: white Democrats voted for Trump in the highest numbers where the Latino population had grown the most.

Diversity + Proximity = War (by political means and then, later, by violent means if the political solution has failed).

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The Big Lie of Leftism, exposed. Courtesy of Jay in DC.

PS what man in his right mind would PoundMeToo that thing? (bill cosby) okay, besides him.

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Julia Allison is a media whore, “relationship” blogger, reality TV participant, and poz pusher for esteemed clam mags like Cosmo. In other words, civilization’s late stage dead weight.

At age 37, single and childless, she had a gratuitously delayed revelation. Overcome with the emptiness of her life and womb, seized by the unfamiliar sting of a piercing self-awareness, she felt a rare emotion: Regret.

Oh, she has a family…

A social media addict, she has two laptops, a desktop, an iPad & an iPhone along with two Facebook profiles, four Twitter handles, a Myspace page, a LinkedIn account, a Flickr feed, four Tumblrs, three Movable Type blogs, one WordPress, two Vimeos, one Quora account, two YouTube channels and a photogenic white shih-tzu named Lilly who – yep – tweets (@Lillydog). Combined, her accounts number over 150,000 fans, followers or subscribers.

…but, oddly, remains unfulfilled.

In a self-aggrandizing confessional, she blames a TV show produced by gay men that glamorized the lifestyle of the barren urban slut for leading her down the Plan B path.

Readers, get ready to journey across the pages of ancient Chateau tomes. Every banality of the modren wahman observed and noted in this outpost of love is sounded out in Mzz Allison’s cacophony of rue. There will be cock carousels, rationalization hamsters, Wall impacts, beta bux, jerkboy fux, femcuntery, psychological litter boxes, and more cameos to titillate Chateau guests.

Dating columnist reveals how ‘Sex and the City’ ruined her life

“Sex and the City” premiered on HBO 20 years ago this week, imprinting on a generation of women a love of fantastic fashion and dreams of their own Mr. Big. Among them was Julia Allison, who moved to New York in the early 2000s to live the Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle. She became a dating columnist, a party fixture and one of the first internet celebrities — thanks to Gawker, the site that loved to hate on her. But her pursuits sent her, ultimately, down a path of unhappiness and unfulfillment. Looking back on how the show’s ideals negatively impacted her life, Allison, now 37, tells Doree Lewak: “If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t.”

Ten years ago, on May 27, 2008, I was on top of the world.

I was riding in an Escalade en route to the “Sex and the City” movie premiere in Midtown with a Bravo camera crew in tow. When the SUV door opened, I stepped onto the pink carpet in my Allison Parris dress and Chanel bag. I felt like a star. I felt beautiful. I felt proud. I was rubbing shoulders with celebs and the goddess herself: Carrie Bradshaw, a k a Sarah Jessica Parker.

Since moving to New York City four years earlier, I’d established myself with my own dating column and graced the cover of Wired magazine. I was a public figure who was regularly photographed alongside such famous faces as Henry Kissinger and Richard Branson. I went to all the glam parties, was fodder for gossip sites, had signed a deal with Bravo for a reality show,

For those of unpolluted mind, Bravo is the gay channel. All gay, all the time, with a supporting cast of f@g hags.

and dated more than my fair share of Mr. Bigs.

Pump and dumps. But if she spoke with radical candor like that she wouldn’t be able to soothe her chafed ego and vagina. Anyhow, it’s funny that she thinks admitting to hopping a parade of cocks like a real life Samantha is both humble and bragging.

I had been profiled in the New York Times, and New York magazine called me “the most famous young journalist in the city.”

The biological clock is wound down, and the Kingdom of Zog is at hand: repent ye, and believe the 14 words.

I was considered by many to be Carrie Bradshaw 2.0. And I was happy to be given that identity for a while, but it was all a lie. At the premiere, I also felt like a fraud, insecure and embarrassed — like I didn’t belong.

But she soldiered on for another fourteen years play-acting as Carrie Bradshaw.

I grew up a nerd in Chicago, more likely to duck into the library than talk to other kids at recess. At 12, I thought I would never be kissed.

Everyone at age 12 thinks this way. The difference is that girls turn it into a theatrical release while boys who don’t bust a move drift into silent celibacy and are never offered paying gigs to write about it.

(Boy, did I make up for that later.)

What every man looking for a relationship worthy woman wants to hear. /s

The show was my road map. Of all the die-hard fans I knew, I was the most influenced by “SATC.”

Dating red flags.

At Georgetown University, where I enrolled in 1999, I started to wear dresses and learned how to do my makeup and curl my hair. The newfound male attention I received felt exhilarating.

Still delusional. Julia, in your late teens and early 20s it wasn’t your dresses and curls that captured the men’s attention.

I even started a dating column for my college paper called “Sex on the Hilltop,” which was modeled after Carrie’s column in the fictional New York Star.

Just the hilltop?

When the last episode of “Sex and the City” aired in February 2004, I hosted a viewing party for 200 guests. It was my swan song as well: Eight months later, I would move to New York, where, armed with my “Sex and the City” DVDs, my transformation really began.

What a headcase.

Based on what I knew from “SATC,” I expected the city to sweep me off my feet. I envisioned nonstop brunching and shopping.

Women really have no idea what their lives would be like if beta males decided to opt out of the civilization building racket. Brunching and shopping fantasies would be replaced by Hobbesian survival fantasies.

It had such an outsize influence on me that — even with a very expensive degree in government — I said to myself: “I’m obviously going to be a columnist.”

Another STEAM grad putting her knowledge to work. Grrlpower!

I later moved to Time Out New York, where I made $750 a week — a huge improvement, but still not enough to buy Manolos and barely enough to afford the $2,500 rent for my 400-square-foot apartment in Hell’s Kitchen.

Cheaper alternatives exist, but that would mean reduced proximity to Mr Bigs.

I lived on food bought for me on dates and the occasional bodega tuna sandwich.

Beta thirst is as responsible for the corruption of American woman as any prime time show on Twat TV.

Different men I dated gave me YSL shoes and status purses, just like Big did for Carrie on “SATC.”

The dirty secret about picking up women in NYC is that the men there are game-less marks who really do try to buy substandard pussy with shoes and purses (and wonder why they get strung along in asexual purgatory). This makes pickup a lot easier for the cockybrah who expects sex without a price tag.

(In 2006, when I landed a six-figure editor-at-large gig at Star magazine,

What talent does she have?
*spreads legs*
Oh yeah.

I also subscribed to Carrie’s ethos when it came to men. There was no such thing as a bad date — only a good date or a good brunch story.

Can you believe she’s still single at the post-Spring chicken age of 37?! What man wouldn’t want to wife up a broad who screws around for years of brunch convo fodder and has the crow’s feet to prove it?

In my writing,

which sucks, btw.

I gave my boyfriends nicknames (one was “Prom King”) just like Carrie and her friends did.

She writes like she’s 14 years old.

I went out with a prince: Lorenzo Borghese from “The Bachelor.” I even dated the British ex-boyfriend of “Sex and the City” creator Candace Bushnell — the original Carrie.

Common denominator: all the men are exes.

He was one of a few men who comprised the composite character Mr. Big.

Humbleshagging.

In 2008, my two best girlfriends and I had just filmed a Bravo pilot for a show called “It Girls” (it wasn’t picked up). We were all invited by a 40-something billionaire to his Miami mansion; he even sent his private jet for us. It was just him, the three of us and his butler and chef. I don’t think this man was used to being told no, and he started chasing me around his mansion. I finally had to lock myself in the bathroom. The worst part: He sent us back on JetBlue.

“No, I don’t do double penetration.”

[Gawker] wrote about me as much as they wrote about Paris Hilton, but I had none of Paris’ resources to defend myself. Their core complaint about me was that I was a quote-unquote “fame whore.”

Gawker nailed that one. Bonus nailing: Gawker is gone.

Then, in 2011, one of my pilots was finally picked up by Bravo. The whole concept of “Miss Advised” was “real-life Carrie Bradshaw.” It was about three single women in three different cities, and I was the dating columnist for Elle in Los Angeles. It was “SATC” meets journalism. Producers sent me to a mind architect, a love coach and a witch in the pursuit of love.

But it came too late: In my heart, I was finished trying to be Carrie. When the show wasn’t renewed for a second season, I was relieved. The experience made me really look at myself: I was trying so hard to be liked that it was coming across as inauthentic and bitchy. Also, it was miserable to have cameras around all the time.

Women cultivate a growing dislike for cameras coincident with their number of years past prime nubility (and nearing prime sterility). How suspicious!

Finally, I cut my ties to New York and moved to San Francisco full-time in 2013.

If she had moved to a small Midwestern town instead of a coastal shitlibopolis, she might have a family to love today.

Finally, I decided to go private for a while. I stopped blogging and writing. I rarely post on Instagram.

Imminent Wall impact will do that to a girl.

These days I work as a change activist,

poopywork.

mounting summits

I bet.

for world leaders and serving as an adviser to startups and entrepreneurs looking to better the planet.

How many flights between Nü York and San Tranny does she take?

I dated a woman for a while

Young lesbianism: experimentation
Old lesbianism: necessity

But dating is not front and center in my life anymore,

…she says as if it was her choice.

although it was all I talked about in my 20s.

There was more conversational material to work with back then.

That’s pretty one-dimensional.

Aging beauties find comfort in scoffing at the preoccupations of their younger, hotter, tighter selves.

Last year, I ended a two-year relationship with a man who ultimately couldn’t [ed: wouldn’t] commit and wanted to be polyamorous.

A man unmotivated to tie himself down with a road worn, has-been slut? Will wonders never cease.

Again, “SATC” and the “lessons” it taught me is the culprit.

Julia Allison fucked her life up and she wants to blame a vapid TV show. “How do I write women so well? I think of a man, and take away reason and accountability.” (Fact: the ultimate culprit is the 19th Amendment.)

The show wasn’t a rubric on how to find a lifelong partnership.

She needed a TV show to teach her how to find a man and start a healthy relationship? Where were all the older female relatives in her life? Where was her brain?

If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether this man was a good partner for me, I don’t think we ever would have dated.

Translation: “If I was more grounded and had honestly assessed whether I was still good enough for any halfway decent man, I don’t think I’d be single and writing this pile of crap through tear-stained cheeks.”

Crushed and needing to regroup, I took a sabbatical and lived in Bali for eight months on a healing journey.

EatPraySlut

I was also celibate during my time there.

I do wonder what my life would have looked like if “Sex and the City” had never come across my consciousness. Perhaps I’d be married with children now?

Lady, I’m certain your arriving spinsterhood isn’t the fault of SATC, unless you’re easily brainwashed. Hmm, have I been overestimating women this whole time?

Who knows, but I can say for sure that, as clever and aesthetically pleasing as the show was

She obsessively stalks this show like it was an ex-bf. Psycho!

— and, as much as I agree with its value of female friendships — it showed too much consumerism and fear of intimacy disguised as empowerment.

It also showed, if she were willing to see, the damaging consequences of slutting it up and cackling about your smashed pussy with other empowered sluts.

It’s like candy: In the moment it feels good to eat it, but afterward, you feel sick.

Women have been warring with their essence for a few decades now, and the battle has been pitched in recent years. The Slut Pride degeneracy and its various cultural tributaries is women — particularly low to middling SMV women who must find novel ways to compete with hot babes — defying their sex-specific emotional burdens and aiming to exert a false, if momentarily satisfying, control over what they perceive as the weaknesses and vulnerabilities of their sex. One of these feminine “frailties” that the modren wahman wants to purge from herself is the undeniable truth that casual sex bothers women a lot more than it does men. Women simply can’t compartmentalize noncommittal sex with the same easy facility that men can. Hence, women like Julia “feel sick” afterward, something that only the soyest of soyboys would feel after licking clean the putrid slits of SATC-aping urban sluts whilst unwittingly grinding their microboners to a climax in the fur of a curious cat sniffing around their nethers.

Whom you’re dating, what you’re wearing, or how good you look at that premiere — none of that s–t matters unless you genuinely love yourself. Solid relationships are what really matter.

It’s funny how aging broads discover solid relationships matter when they start having trouble getting them.

Sure, I could have been a dating columnist for the rest of my life but, honestly, I gave really bad dating advice — and so did Carrie Bradshaw.

If a shiv artist like yours truly had told her that when she was younger and hotter, no doubt she would have lashed out like a cornered alleycat. The ravages of time and the looming threat of insol wonderfully focus the waning slut’s mind.

I want to be a different role model from the one I got. Two months ago, I started seeing someone I never would have dated 10 years earlier.

Cue Mr Beta Bux! Or just Mr Beta. Not many men with romantic options are excited about dating, let alone wifing up, a wrinkled slattern with a vagina that echoes. Luckily for Julia, there are desperate vegetable lasagnas willing to settle for her flabby hide rather than live in faptivity.

Back then, I wasn’t looking to get married or seek a lifelong partner, and that was a mistake.

Reciprocally, it would be a big mistake for any man with an ounce of self-worth to commit to a post-carousel cock holster rapidly nearing her expiration date. Why buy an old cow whose udders dried up long ago when fresh milk is on every slore shelf?

This man is a very reasonable choice, and I’m at a place in my life where reasonable is very sexy.

“reasonable” = passionless. What every woman knows deep in her heart is that the later in life she gets serious about finding a long-term partner, the likelier it is she’ll have to resign herself to settling down with an unexciting herb she doesn’t truly love. The remainder of her life will be a slapstick comedy of fake orgasms, fake headaches, screaming brats, and bathroom retreats with a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Sadomasochism, all the while resentfully rasping through a fog of regret for the alpha males who got away when she was younger, hotter, tighter and thought she had all the time in the world.

Blame Carrie?

Nah. Blame yourself. And if your current relationship with your Reasonable Beta lasts longer than two more months after he reads you admitting that he would have been ignored by you ten years ago when your sexual rejection would have mattered, count yourself lucky. It could be worse. You could find yourself spending numberless weekends at the fertility clinic to birth your autistic twins. Oh wait.

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A field report from an anonymous realtalker:

De-urbanization has to be a long-term goal of the Trump administration, or whichever “more Trump than Trump” Presidency follows Trump. A handful of megalopolis shitlib hideouts accelerates civil breakdown and regional alienation. I’m not saying do away with cities; I’m saying de-scale them, make them smaller, spread them out, and redistribute their talent and hothouse ideological insanity so that the damage the urban hives can do to America is muted. (Questions about if or how to redistribute the urban Diversity™ I leave as an exercise for the reader.)

Reintroduce connections between city, town and countryside that today are utterly severed, and you’ll reinvigorate the sense of shared values and mutual concern for countrymen that naturally evolves in healthy connected societies. As part of this project, de-diversification must accompany de-urbanization, which can be achieve by deportations, an immigration moratorium, and a later immigration policy that exemplifies the spirit of the 1924 Immigration and Naturalization Act.

As is the wont of their crabbed mental condition, shitlibs project their maladjusted social insularity and general cold-heartedness onto rural Americans, and with a vengeance, because the shitlib hates nothing more than his own self-deceiving smallness.

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Williamk offers a compelling explanation of the motivating psychology of once-attractive girls who self-mutilate in the name of feminism:

Because they dont want beta orbiters, or random hookups, they want alpha commitment. That’s out of reach for even some genuinely pretty girls, the supply of alpha guys is low.

So they say “well I don’t want that anyway” and chop away their appeal to prove they totally don’t want an alpha commitment. That way it’s “her choice”, and she can stave off enough cognitive dissonance to keep from offing her self.

Pretty much every one of these cases starts with alpha widowhood.

The sour grapes fable is about the fox who can’t pluck delicious grapes hanging out of reach, so the fox pretends that it never really wanted those grapes (“they’re probably sour anyhow”). It’s related to Pointy Elbow Syndrome which afflicts internet dwelling omega males. What Williamk (and myself, in various posts) is saying is that women who have taken up the banner of feminism and uglified themselves are like the fox in the fable, insisting those out-of-reach alpha males are probably losers and misogynists anyhow, and she never really wanted their love and commitment.

Where these feminists differ from the fox is in their willingness to self-abase and self-disfigure in order to convince themselves of their ego assuaging lie. The most effective lies start with self-deception. The fox merely stated his insincere disapproval of the juicy grapes before moving on to nibble on an edible within reach; feminists underscore their insincere disapproval of masculine alpha males by mutilating themselves in body, mind, and/or spirit, and then tacitly declaring that the lack of attention from a dwindling pool of sexy men is how they wanted it. See: Amanjaw Marcuntte, or any “mainstream” feminist mouthpiece.

Which is another way of saying, “How convenient!”.

Understanding this psychology of women who straddle the upper-lower and middle tiers of female SMV, we can predict that Feminist Idiocy will only get worse with the increase in gloryhole faced soyboys. Apropos, vfm#7634 writes,

“the supply of alpha guys is low.”

Women, being the reactive sex, turn femcunt as a reaction to men becoming soybois.

If there were more alphas, you’d think that the average beta would be worse off. Not true. More alphas mean many more attractive women around.

More soyboys => relatively fewer alphas => more bitter romantic losers among women who will find ego saving solace in the embrace of man-hating and femininity-discarding feminism. Every generation deserves the sexes it gets, and if men are weak suckup betasoys, then their women will be haranguing embittered fat feminist harpies. And the feedback loop travels in both directions: the more unfeminine bluehaired fat feminists, the more low T men there are who will abandon the masculine virtues and escape to vidja, pron, and David Fatrellian male feminist toady signaling.

When soyboys abound, plain janes get resentful. Spiteful. In this condition, these tingle-denied middling SMV women on the cusp of cuteness are liable to self-destruct in one final F YOU SOYS to the un-men in their midst. Only charismatic, dominant, entitled, masculine men (including strong fathers) have a hope of walking these women back from the pussyhat brink, but those men are MIA or busy courting hotter, more feminine women.

Piling on, HoneyBear adds,

A similar formulation… they [SMV-destroying feminists] are the female equivalent of MGTOW.

Many girls are probably as disgusted as redpilled men are about the desecration of the postmodern mating market. Their hearts want a prince for life. The self-mutilation is them recoiling in horror from the Jewish slaughterhouse of souls.

They don’t understand the cause and nature of the problem, so they fall prey to diabolical lies; they direct their hate at the wrong target, and lash out in the wrong way.

Aghast at the nature of the beast, men blame women and women blame men. There used to be a system that caged the beast, but somebody unchained it intentionally.

The Id Monster is loosed.

One tried and true method for women to follow if they want to improve their chance to land a winner man willing and eager to commit to them is to avoid accumulating too many cock notches (really, any number greater than one is a red flag), to resist mudsharking, and to give of themselves heart and vagina at a young prime fertility age to a worthy man.

This may mean cutting back on the number of years devoted to mimosa brunches, college degrees, and cat selfies, but it’s a small price to pay for lifelong happiness. You’d think.

I’ve written that the goal of feminism is

…to remove all constraints on female sexuality while maximally restricting male sexuality.

This goal serves a purpose, and it dovetails with the feminism-as-sour-grapes-rationalization argument, considering that female romantic losers (and mediocre women with a bigger hill to climb to capture a masculine man’s eye) would benefit from rearranging the world so that their every whim, preference, and desire are encouraged and celebrated, while men’s every whim, preference, and desire are circumscribed and shamed. This won’t get those women the alphas they want, but it will provide social cover for their bruised egos.

Similarly, feminism is an equalizing ideology; feminists (though they may not know it) cling to their mistaken beliefs because the point of the ideology isn’t truth, it’s to level the female playing field:

According to Benenson, a common way women deal with the threat represented by a remarkably powerful or beautiful woman is by insisting on standards of equality, uniformity, and sharing for all the women in the group and making these attributes the normative requirements of proper femininity. […]

From early childhood onwards, girls compete using strategies that minimize the risk of retaliation and reduce the strength of other girls. Girls’ competitive strategies include avoiding direct interference with another girl’s goals, disguising competition, competing overtly only from a position of high status in the community, enforcing equality within the female community and socially excluding other girls.

***

So feminists’ promotion of anti slut-shaming and anti fat-shaming and anti ugly-shaming and anti single-mother-shaming etc, is really just an execution of women’s intra-sexual competitive strategies. It’s the bottom third of women versus the top two thirds. Or perhaps it’s the bottom quarter, as if I remember correctly only 20-25% of women identify as feminist.

With knowledge such as this, you can easily reframe any leftist/feminist argument about a war on women as instead a war by the bottom loser women against the top successful women.

It’s the SU’s (Sluts & Uglies) versus the HB’s.

The Sour Grapes and Intrasexual Egalitarianism theories of feminism may at first glance seem unrelated or even contradicting, but it makes sense when you realize the latter theory’s feminist equalizing push for uniformity in standards of female behavior and SMV that evades and eschews judgment (implicitly denying that men have, or should have, standards in female sexual and relationship worth) is a complement to the former theory’s function as cognitive dissonance relief for marginal chicks who lose out in a liberated sexual market. The former — Sour Grapes — is the backup hugbox for their egos when the latter — Female SMV Uniformity — fails sufficiently to convince the HSMV hot babes to relinquish their advantages or to convince society to celebrate every feminist bout of insanity as womanhood perfected.

As society fills up with more soyboys and turns away from enabling the side show circus act known as cunt’th wave feminism (thanks in part to the very special lessons this outpost of love lovingly administers), we can expect to see more borderline chicks, with juuuuust enough latent SMV to help them fantasize they have a shot to land an alpha male, embracing the uglification protocol of Sour Grapes Feminism.

A rapidly disintegrating and unregulated, atomized sexual market that becomes more primal by the day will drive many more disillusioned women on the losing side of the romantic life ledger into self-mutilation, and likewise beta men into self-castration.

In this reading, relations between the sexes have to get much worse before they get better. The Bluehair Apocuntlypse is the necessary nadir of the battle of the sexes, when fraternizing is limited to the few remaining slender feminine women and dominant, charming men, and the rest are mutually repulsed low T soyboys and tatted hair-chopped feminist scolds. That’s rock bottom, and when the West hits it our shared worldview will experience a massive paradigm shift back to accepting and elevating the wisdom of the ancients, when the sexes knew their roles, their weaknesses, and their strengths, and joyfully reveled in their inspiriting sexual polarity…

…instead of denying their polarity to stew angrily and spitefully in an androgynous passionless soulless slop of equalist anhedonia.

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